


til then

by erostiel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Friends to Lovers, M/M, One Shot, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:14:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24198064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erostiel/pseuds/erostiel
Summary: And now, all that Dean can think is there’s never going to be a good time. There’s always gonna be something — purgatory, Metatron, the angels falling, the mark, the Devil himself — standing in their way.And Cas is just down the hall.(Post S13E05, Dean considers what he's lost, and thinks about what he might have gotten back.)
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 9
Kudos: 143





	til then

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first ever Supernatural fic!! I've been watching the show since 2008, quietly lurking on all the con-vids and blooper reels, and now I've finally worked up the balls to write something myself. 
> 
> This is unbeta'd. I may come back an edit it tomorrow if I feel like it, but no promises. I also wrote this in about four hours this afternoon, and I'm sure it's messy as hell. 
> 
> This really served as an exercise to see if I could write for Dean and Cas (getting their voices right is SO HARD). I'm giving myself a moderate 6/10, but I can only improve from here, right? 
> 
> fic title comes from it's never too late by steppenwolf

There’s never going to be a good time. 

For a while, Dean had hoped. He’d hoped that there was a light at the end of the tunnel, a pot of gold at the end of the veritable shithole they called a life. He’d hoped that someday, one day, he’d be able to leave the life behind and live normal. 

But hope doesn’t do anyone any good. And that kind of thinking isn’t gonna get him anywhere. 

It’s easier to hold back, to keep his arms still when all they do is ache to reach out. He keeps his head down, his thoughts and his wants to himself, and it’s fine. It is what it is, and Dean’s got no right to ask for anything more, so why risk it? 

This thing between him and Cas, it’s gone unnamed for years. They both know it’s there — or, at least, Dean thinks that they both do. Cas’ long stares are hard to interpret sometimes, his inability to know the limits of normal social behaviour muddies the water a little, but he seems to have learnt with Sam and with Jack. He still stands a little too close to Dean, watches him a little too long, and it makes Dean think, _yeah, he knows._

But for all those things, Cas has never done a damn thing to change it. So maybe he’s happy, with things as they are, and Dean’s just gotta get happy with it too. He wants to, he does, because there’s no sense in praying for something more, not when it’s just another thing that he’ll screw up, but.

But Cas died. 

He died, and Dean couldn’t do a goddamn thing about it. 

There’s not many memories worse than the one of Cas standing in front of him, held up by the bloodstained blade shoved in his back and out through his front. The light that had glowed from his eyes and his mouth burned itself in Dean’s thoughts, and when it was gone, when Cas was just a body dropped on the ground, Dean had felt as if the light had hollowed him out too. 

And it keeps coming back, that picture, that moment, every time Dean closes his eyes. It’s all he can see. Even with Cas back, just down the hall, Dean can’t rid himself of it. It plays again and again in his head, carrying with it the same damn emptiness. 

And now, all that Dean can think is ' _there’s never going to be a good time.'_ There’s always gonna be something — purgatory, Metatron, falling angels, the mark, the Devil himself — standing in their way. 

And Cas is just down the hall. 

He was dead, but now he’s just down the hall. And all of Dean’s reasoning, all of his sensible, thought out decisions about the state of them, the status quo? It flies out the window, in the face of that fact. 

Cas is here. He’s _here._

His heart thunders in his chest as he comes to a stop outside Cas’ door. Sam and Jack went to bed a while back, so he keeps his steps quiet. His knock, too, when he gently raps his knuckles against the door. 

He doesn’t have to wait long. 

Cas is all mojo-d up again, battery recharged to one-hundred percent, so he isn’t sleeping. When he opens the door, he’s got his coat and shoes on like he always does. He was probably sitting in his room, thinking, same as Dean was. The only thing Dean doesn’t know is if they were thinking about the same thing. 

“Dean?” Cas asks, his voice all gravel. “Is something wrong?” 

Dean doesn’t know how to answer that. Not with words, at least. 

He stares at Cas for a long moment — although, not long for them, if he’s honest. Cas doesn’t care. His face stays open, patient until Dean lifts a hand and gently presses it to Cas’ cheek. Dean smoothes his thumb across the stubble on Cas’ jaw and sees a flash of _something_ right before he leans and kisses him. 

Bringing his other hand up, Dean frames Cas’ face and presses in close, drinking him in. Cas, for all his clumsiness and inelegance, catches on in an instant. He grasps at Dean’s waist with one hand, the other coming up to clutch tightly at Dean’s wrist. His grip is hard, but he makes no effort to push Dean away. He holds him close instead like he won’t let Dean pull away even if Dean wanted to, and opens underneath Dean’s touch. 

Even with Cas in his arms, Dean is overwhelmed by an impossible need to be closer. He crowds in, his open palm stretching across Cas’ neck and around to cradle his head. Cas pulls at him — at his wrist and his waist — and they wobble until Cas’ back thumps into the doorframe. Anchored there, Dean can press forward with his whole body.

Cas is warm and alive and real. His stubble scratches at Dean’s chin, his lips press intently at Dean’s. He’s _here, and_ it’s so different from that picture in Dean’s memory that Dean can hardly believe it. Even with all the evidence before him, in his hands, under his mouth. He’ll never get enough. 

When they break apart, Cas’ eyes are searching. “Dean.” 

It’s a question and not a question at the same time. His grip on Dean stays firm. There is barely any air between them. 

“You’re back,” Dean says. Everything that he’s feeling, it’s too much and too huge to define with words, but those are the closest. “You were gone, and I thought—” He can’t say it, not out loud. Not when he thought so many things. “But you’re back.” 

Cas rubs his thumb across the joint of Dean’s wrist. “I am.” 

Dean can’t help himself. He ducks forward and steals another kiss. This one is quick, though. “I’m sorry,” Dean runs his fingertips through the short hair at Cas’ nape. “If this is—” 

He doesn’t know what this is, other than the desperate plea of a broken man. This is something he told himself he could never have, something he was foolish to even dream of. This is something that might break him again, on another of those far-off maybe-days, or possibly right now if Cas tells him to leave. 

Cas doesn’t. 

“It’s alright,” he says. “It’s okay to want this, Dean.” 

Dean shakes his head. “You—" his voice is hoarse, rough and unsteady. "You gotta want it too.”

As hard as it would be to pull himself away, Dean wants no part of this if Cas is only responding out of some sense of obligation. If he only wants to make Dean happy, well, he does that already — just by being here. 

Cas’ head tilts a little, pressing into Dean’s touch. 

“I love you,” he says instead, knocking the wind clean from Dean’s lungs. Whatever Dean does with his face in response, it makes Cas’ eyes soften. His fingers curl at Dean’s waist, clutching at the fabric of Dean’s t-shirt. “I don't — I'm not human anymore. Feelings are—" For the first time, Cas looks unsure. Seeing that look in his eyes makes Dean tighten his grip, holding him steady. "I'm not always sure which words are the right ones but, this." He looks at the scant space between them. "You. Loving you, it's more than a feeling. It's who I am.” 

He lifts his hand to touch Dean’s face now, still keeping the other on Dean’s wrist. His fingertip drags across the arch of Dean’s cheekbone, achingly tender. It’s the gentlest thing Dean’s ever known. 

Dean clears his throat, the air around them impossibly brittle. 

“You love me?” 

Cas nods, serene. “Yes.” 

Such a warm and lovely feeling blooms in Dean’s chest that it overwhelms him. Tears stinging at his eyes, Dean rushes out a breath and looks away for the first time since he’d knocked on Cas’ door. “God, Cas,” he says. “You’ve got terrible taste.” 

He can’t help himself, the joke out and in the air between them before he can stop it. It’s the sort of thing he’d normally try to keep inside. All sorts of things are spilling out from him tonight. 

Cas tilts Dean’s head back up, still soft, still gentle, until he holds Dean’s gaze again. “That's not true." He says it easily as if it's the surest thing he's ever said, and kisses Dean, leaving him no room to disagree. He cranes his head up until he has claimed Dean’s mouth again. Dean feels dizzy with it, his eyes fluttering shut as he lets himself fall into the feeling of Cas’ hands in his hair. 

He thinks of nothing but Cas’ touch until Cas pulls away again. Staying close, so close, Cas asks, “Would you like to come inside, Dean?” 

It only occurs to him then, that they’re standing at Cas’ door. With Cas’ pressed between the doorframe and Dean’s body, Dean is still in the hallway. While it’s late, there’s no way of knowing if Sam or Jack will come out for a glass of water or a night-time snack. It wouldn’t necessarily be the end of the world if they were to find Dean and Cas here, as close as they are, lips red from kissing. But it would lead to conversations that Dean isn’t quite ready for yet. Conversations he’d like to have with Cas before he has to have them with his brother. 

Dean nods, clearing his throat. “Yeah, that would be, uh. Yeah.” 

He’s not doing well with words tonight. Cas fills in the blanks though, pushing away from the doorframe and using his grip on Dean’s wrist to pull him inside. Once they are both inside Cas let’s go of Dean so that he can shut the door quietly behind them. 

With Cas’ touch gone, a sudden swell of anxiety makes a home in Dean’s chest. What if this is a mistake? It needles at him. What if he was right, and this thing between them was better left unspoken? What if they’re ruining something precious? 

“Dean,” Cas says, catching his attention. He steps close, but not quite as close as they were before. “Are you alright?”

Dean looks around the room a little wildly. It is mostly untouched, unchanged by Cas’ presence here. When Cas was dead, Dean had hated it for its barrenness. There was none of Cas there, nothing for Dean to hold onto. If Cas leaves again, Dean will have nothing of him left. 

Dean tries to straighten his thoughts but fails. “I, uh.” 

Cas takes another step forward, shortening the distance between them again, but not closing it. Dean hasn’t exactly been subtle, so it isn’t a surprise when Cas guesses the reason for his panic. “Dean, whatever happens tonight — it will not change anything between us.” 

Dean gives a hoarse laugh. “Of course, it will. It already has.” 

But Cas shakes his head. “My love for you is not conditional, Dean.” _Dean, Dean, Dean._ He says Dean’s name so often, and with so much certainty. It’s impossible to ignore. “It will remain, whether you stay or you go.” 

He’s so _other,_ sometimes. It comes out in moments like this, when Dean hears the word ‘love’ and lets the world spin when Cas says it as easy as anything. When he promises to love Dean, no matter what, and says it as though it should be obvious. 

Dean shakes his head. “You can’t know that.” 

“Of course, I can,” Cas says. 

“Jesus, Cas.” 

Dean drops his weight back, letting the wall catch him. He rests his hand back against the cool bricks, hopes that it might clear his head a little. 

When Castiel approaches him, it’s slowly, cautiously. As if Dean is a spooked animal, ready to run at the slightest movement. Considering the rabbit-quick beat of his heart, Dean thinks that assessment might not be far off. 

_God,_ he has no idea what he’s doing. 

Cas wets his lips. Dean is helpless to track the movement. He gets closer, and closer until there are mere inches between them again. 

“What do you want, Dean?” 

Dean stares at him. His eyes are blue and his expression is soft. As careful as he is in his approach, there is no telegraphing the power within him. He is every inch the unknown force that once shook a gas station down around Dean, and Dean’s closest, _closest_ friend. 

When he thinks about it like that, the answer is so easy.

“You,” Dean says, and that is all the invitation that Cas needs. 

He crowds Dean up against the wall, kissing him again but only for a moment. Quickly, he is mapping a path across Dean’s jaw, down Dean’s neck and to the open collar of Dean’s shirt. As he mouths at Dean’s collarbone, Dean shuts his eyes and arches his neck back. He grabs at Cas’ coat, pushing the fabric aside so that he can reach around Cas’ waist and yank him close. Held so tightly, it’s easy for Dean’s leg to shift, making room for Cas’ leg to slip between. Cas is wearing his dress shirt, the same one he always wears, tucked neatly into his pants. Or, not so neatly anymore. Dean tugs it loose, desperate to get his hands on Cas’ skin. He tucks his hands underneath the fabric and smoothing his palms across the warm skin of Cas’ back. 

Cas explores Dean’s body with the same enthusiasm. His hands lift Dean’s shirt, his fingertips pushing underneath the back of Dean’s waistband. They dance there, teasing for a moment, before continuing to slide over Dean’s hips. From there, Cas searches upward. When his finger brushes across Dean’s nipple, a noise escapes Dean that he can’t control, and Cas pauses in his kisses. He pulls away from Dean’s now surely bruised collarbone and watches Dean closely, rubbing the nipple once more. 

“Fuck, Cas,” Dean hisses, flushing. He’s not sure if it’s from the touch or the intensity of Cas’ stare. 

Cas does it again, harder now. “There are many things I still have to learn about you,” Cas says, casual as anything. His touch stays soft but persistent. He circles Dean’s nipple, rubbing and pressing and driving Dean wild. “This, for instance. Is it good?” 

Dean chokes on a laugh. “Yeah,” he says, too quickly, too loudly. “Fuck yeah, Cas. It’s good.” 

Cas pinches him now, and Dean’s breathless laughter cuts off. “And this?” 

A little shakier now. “Yeah.” 

“What else?” 

Dean kisses him again. He pulls his hands out from under Cas’ shirt and shifts his attention to the buttons instead. Oh, but wait. Cas has his tie on, too, so that first. Dean tugs at the knot, pulling it loose quickly and tossing it away to the side. Cas doesn’t seem to mind that his question has gone unanswered, and kisses Dean back with unrelenting intent. A quick learner, he bites at Dean’s bottom lip and Dean lets out another little noise. 

He pops the first of Cas’ buttons, then the second. He is working on the third when Cas pulls back, just an inch. 

“Dean,” he says, his voice gratifyingly low. “What else?” 

Dean nudges his head forward, bumping his mouth against the crown of Cas’ cheekbone. He is struck by the impulse to bite lightly at the skin there, and so he does. He is done questioning himself, at least for the moment. Once he is done, he presses a soothing kiss to the same spot. 

“I’ll show you,” he says, and from the look in Cas’ eye, that is more than enough. 

He returns to the buttons, undoing the rest quickly. Cas is still wearing his jacket, but Dean doesn’t pay it any mind. With the shirt open, Dean can smooth his hands across the flat panes of Cas’ chest, up over his shoulders and under the fabric, pushing it all back and over Cas’ arms. The shirt and the coat fall together in a heap at their feet. 

Dean doesn’t notice. There is too much exposed skin for him to bother looking at anything else.

“C’mere,” Dean says, without really meaning to, and pulling Cas back into him. 

Cas comes willingly, pressing back into Dean’s space with all of his body. The move rocks their hips together, and this time it’s Cas who makes a noise. A helpless breath of air presses against Dean’s lips, riding on a moan. It ignites a heat, deep in Dean’s centre, that immediately begs for more. 

Cas moves his hips again, unashamed in his pursuit of the pleasure it seems to bring him. It isn’t long before he is gripping at Dean’s hip, rocking them both together. His dress pants are flimsy, but flimsier is the fabric of Dean’s sweats. They’re old, a pair he’s slept in for years, and they conceal none of the want that Dean feels for Cas. His hardness seems to spur Cas on, and soon they are only breathing against each other’s lips, too focused on the grind of their hips to kiss properly. 

It feels — fuck, it feels so good. Dean’s eyes flutter shut as the heat threatens to overwhelm him, and suddenly he’s pushing at Cas’ hips, stilling him. 

“Bed,” is all he says.

Cas gives a decisive nod and wastes no time. He pulls Dean away from the wall and directs him smoothly to the bed in the middle of the room. He doesn’t bother with the blankets, pushing Dean back to lie on top of them instead. In seconds, he joins him, crawling up Dean’s body and only pausing to pull at the hem of Dean’s t-shirt. 

“Take this off,” he says, and the firmness of the order makes Dean shiver. 

Dean leans up a little to do it himself, but Cas beats him to it. He lifts the shirt up and over Dean’s head, helping pull Dean’s arms free and then throwing it aside, immediately forgotten. He leans down and covers Dean’s body with his own. The press of soft skin against skin loosens something in Dean. He is almost lazy when he reaches up to pull Cas down for another kiss.

A part of him would quite like to climb inside of Cas and make a home there, Dean thinks errantly. Even that might not be as close as Dean wants, though. 

Cas shifts a little, dragging his mouth over Dean’s neck and down to his chest. His fingers find Dean’s nipples again, and he contents himself experimenting for a moment. He tugs, and rubs, and when that is not enough, he seals his lips over one of them and uses his teeth instead. 

No one has ever devoted so much attention to this part of Dean, and he’s almost breathless with how much it’s impacting him. Dean lets out lots of little noises then, all the kind that he’ll be ashamed of later. But under Cas’ touch, it doesn’t feel so embarrassing to be vulnerable like this. Cas certainly won’t judge him. No, his only focus appears to be drawing more of the same from Dean. 

His hand tracks down, dragging over Dean’s ribs and then his belly until he stops to gently cup Dean through his pants. Unprepared, Dean can’t help but push his hips up and into the touch. Cas lifts his head from Dean’s chest and looks up at him through hooded eyes. 

He doesn’t say anything, so Dean does. 

“You’re kind of a natural, Cas,” he says breathlessly. 

Proving Dean’s point, Cas curls his fingers around Dean. Even though his sweatpants, the pressure is good, so good. 

“You are a subject that I am particularly dedicated to learning,” Cas says. 

Dean laughs. “Mhmm,” he says. “Talk dirty to me.”

He’s just — fuck, he’s just so happy. Cas is alive. He’s alive, and even though there’s a world of shit outside, a thousand other things Dean will have to worry about when the sun rises, that feels like enough. For tonight, at least, it’s enough. 

He is so busy musing on that thought, basking in it, that he doesn’t notice Cas slipping his hand underneath Dean’s sweatpants until he’s touching Dean again, this time skin on skin. Whatever he was thinking is distracted immediately by — fuck, _hot, yes, now_. 

“Is this good?” 

“Fuck, ah, Cas. So good.” 

Cas smiles at him so warmly that Dean almost forgets about the hand on his dick. _Almost._

Then Cas leans in close. “I’d like to taste it if that’s okay.” 

For a second, nothing at all goes through Dean’s head. His thoughts, if he had any, fall completely offline. He stares at Cas, floored, before a warm stroke from Cas’ hand brings him back to the present. 

“Uh, yeah that’s fucking okay,” Dean says. 

Cas nods his head. “Good.” 

With a new plan set, Cas turns impatient. He pushes up from the bed, standing, and tugs Dean’s pants off in one smooth motion. Then he kneels back on the bed, and noses straight for Dean’s crotch. Dean has time to register that fuck, Cas has still got his goddamn shoes on before a lick to the crown of him scatters his thoughts once more. 

As he has proved to be with any other task, Castiel sucks dick as if he has something to prove. The hot-wet-heat of his mouth makes every other thought fly from Dean’s head, save for how fucking good it feels. 

With his brain offline, it is no wonder that words begin to spill from Dean’s lips. 

_“Oh, shit, Cas — fuck, you’re. You’re so — Oh, keep going, fuck. I can’t_ — _”_

He can’t believe this is happening. Holy fucking shit. 

Cas pulls off with a frankly obscene noise, and when he speaks, his voice is scratchier than normal. “I’ve thought about this, you know.”

Again, he says it easily. As if it’s the most casual thing in the world. 

Dean’s having trouble putting sentences together. “You — you have?” 

Cas hums and nods. “Yes. I didn’t understand what desire was, before you.” He circles his hand around Dean’s shaft, jerking him. 

“And you — you desire me?” 

It’s such a strange question to ask out loud. When Dean hears it himself, he flushes hot, a blush creeping across his cheeks and his chest. But Cas just nods. 

“More than anything, Dean.” 

Dean lets his head fall back against the mattress. He needs to shut his eyes, just for a moment, just to try and convince himself that this is real. In the moment he takes, Cas decides to go back to licking and sucking him. Then Dean’s brain is clear again. 

He thinks only of the feel of Cas’ mouth, the press of his throat when he pushes down and takes more of Dean in. With urgency building in him, it’s all that Dean can do to stop himself from thrusting upwards and into that heat. But Cas’ hand presses at Dean’s hip, taking that small rocking movement and encouraging it, letting Dean fuck upwards. The same hand curls from Dean’s hip, around and across the globe of Dean’s arse. 

When Cas prods a finger, dry, at his opening, Dean comes. There’s no stopping it, and he vaguely thinks that he should have warned Cas — but when his vision clears, and Cas has pulled off of him and crawled back up Dean’s body, he looks impossibly content. His mouth is a dark, ruined red. 

“I like bringing you pleasure, Dean,” he says. 

Dean doesn’t let that floor him for too long. He’s blushing still, he can feel it, but he tries to keep his voice even. “Yeah, well. Right back ‘atcha, pal.” 

There’s no mistaking the hardness at his hip, or the way that Cas is rocking into Dean, almost unconsciously. And even though Dean’s body is tingling all over, sated and happy and content, they are by no means finished. 

He makes that as clear as possible by sweeping Cas down for another kiss. Cas goes easily, his hand coming up to frame Dean’s jaw, his finger tucking itself into the small space behind Dean’s ear. It takes a little maneuvering, but Dean ultimately twists enough that he can reach both his hands down to Cas’ belt. 

“Get these off,” Dean mumbles against Cas’ lips, tugging on Cas’ waistband. “And your shoes, for fuck’s sake.” 

Cas leans away with a huff, but he’s smiling. For a moment, they both peer down the bed at his shoes — which he has dangling awkwardly off the edge of the bed. Apparently, the ‘no shoes on the bed’ rule is one that Cas has decided to earnestly respect, and thinking about that makes Dean chuckle. 

Cas kicks them off ruefully, letting them fall with a clunk onto the floor. He’s still got his socks on — and Christ, seeing Cas, an indefinable force of nature, angel of the lord, flex his toes in his socks is all sorts of strange and oddly cute. With the shoes sorted, Dean returns his attention to the belt and swiftly discards it. He unbuttons and unzips Cas’ slacks, and wastes no time slipping his hands inside. 

“You’re a boxers guy, huh?” 

Cas hums. “I’ve been told they are the superior option.” 

“Yeah?” Dean wraps his hand around Cas’ length, swiping his thumb across the head. “Who told you that?” 

“Sam.” 

Dean’s mood instantly sours, and his hand stills. “What the hell were you and Sam doing talking about—?” He cuts himself off. His hand is on _Cas’ dick._ He doesn’t want to talk about his brother. “Okay. New rule. No talking about Sam when we’re doing this.” 

There is the barest hint of a smile playing on Cas’ lips, which makes Dean suspect he knew exactly what he was doing. But he nods, acquiescing, and says, “My apologies.” 

Suspicious, Dean buries responding grumble in Cas’ neck and starts moving his hand again. “You like this?” 

“Very much.” 

He’s not lying. Dean can feel how Cas is moving his hips, rising to meet Dean’s hand. He can see the red flush that’s spread down Cas’ chest, how his breathing isn’t as steady as it normally is. 

But still, Cas is very much in control of himself right now. Dean would like to see that change. 

“So you got a little handsy downstairs, didn’t ya?” 

Cas frowns. “Downstairs?” He begins to clarify. “I haven’t been downstairs since—” 

“Not that downstairs,” Dean interrupts him, flushing a little. “I mean. You know. Before.” 

Cas frowns at him for a long moment, before recognition sparks behind his eyes. He turns abruptly serious, reaches down and takes a hold of Dean’s wrist, stilling him. “Dean,” he says. “If anything I did made you uncomfortable, I apologise.” 

If possible, Dean goes a little pinker. “No, uh. You didn’t.” 

Cas surveys him, stern. “You’re sure.” 

Gulping, Dean nods. “Yeah, uh. Kinda the opposite, actually.” 

That earns him another long stare. 

It’s something that’s always existed in the back of Dean’s mind — how much he likes it when someone touches him down there, how quickly it gets him off. He doesn’t always think about it, especially not when most of his encounters are his nights with non-descript women from non-descript bars. It’s easier, in that situation, to just work off the main menu. 

But with Cas here, soft and warm and right there with him, Dean feels a little more confident asking for the extras. 

His answer settles the concern on Cas’ face, and he relaxes his grip on Dean. “You like it?” 

Oh, God, his face is on fire. That directness is going to take a little getting used to. 

Even thinking about it now, about Cas’ fingers and maybe more, he can feel that heat growing in him again. His dick is still soft, spent. He’s not the young man he used to be. But that doesn’t stop the desire from swelling, for stimulation of a different kind. 

As direct as Cas is, it’s hard for Dean to be just as forthright. 

“Yeah, Cas,” Dean ducks his head a little. “Like, a lot.” 

Cas gives him about two seconds to stare down at the mattress beneath them. Then he reaches out and lifts Dean’s chin again, waiting until they’re looking at each other. “Tell me.” 

Dean stares at him, wets his lips. “Tell you what?” 

He knows. He just — he —

Cas has no patience for it. “Tell me what you want, Dean.” 

He leans in a little closer and starts to move his hips again. They’d fallen still while they’d spoken, but now Cas thrusts forward and into the loose curl of Dean’s hand. The roll of his hips is obscene, and that fire in Dean’s belly grows. 

“Fuck me, Cas,” he says. 

They don’t talk much more after that. Cas crowds in and over Dean, sealing their lips together, some of the urgency from the doorway rearing its head again. It’s so easy for Dean to spread his legs, make room for Cas to shift his hips and settle in between them. 

Dean does stop kissing Cas, just for a second, to say, “We don’t have—” 

“I’m an angel of the Lord,” Cas says into Dean’s navel. “I think I can handle a little lubricant.” 

He shifts, ducking further down between Dean’s legs, and lifts Deans thigh to make room for himself. Sure enough, when his finger pushes at Dean’s entrance for a second time, it’s slick and slippery with _something_ that Cas has conjured from nothing. 

Dean doesn’t give a shit where it came from. The whole world has narrowed down to Cas, and his fingers as they prod their way inside. Cas uses the noises that Dean makes as a guide, biting lightly at the meat of Dean’s thigh, then tonguing at the bruises he leaves behind. It takes him no time at all to find that spot inside of Dean, and once it is found he doesn’t leave it alone. Slowly, Dean feels himself start to harden again, the pleasure from Cas’ fingers too much to be ignored entirely. 

He’ll be wrecked tomorrow, but it’ll be worth it. 

Cas graduates from one to two, to three, so smoothly that Dean barely notices. As he grows more and more desperate, Dean reaches down and pulls one of his knees to his chest, opening himself as much as he can. He rocks his hips, meeting Cas’ sure movements, and shuts his eyes, letting himself be overcome with feeling. 

“How do you know when you’re ready?” Cas asks, pressing down on Dean’s prostate. 

Dean gasps. “Now, I’m ready now.” 

“How can you—?” 

“ _Cas.”_ Dean opens his eyes and cranes his head forward, letting all of his desperation shine through. “I just know. It’s now. _Please.”_

And, despite how casually as he’s been speaking, Cas’ eyes go dark. There is no mistaking the desire there, and it sends a thrill of excitement through Dean. By the time Cas has climbed back up Dean’s body, anticipation is thrumming through Dean’s veins. 

“Come on,” Dean whispers against Cas’ lips. “Fuck me.” 

There is heat in Cas’ eyes, and it speaks to a burning kind of intent that Dean has seldom been the focus of. Despite that, though, Cas is careful as he reaches down and lines himself up. When the head of his dick is pressed against Dean, he soothes his hand across Dean’s thigh, impossibly gentle. 

Then he’s pushing in, and Dean’s brain whites out just a little. The slide, the pressure, is exquisite. Dean lets out a low groan, too loud for their little room, and thumps his head back into the mattress. With Dean’s lips out of reach, Cas presses kisses along the line of Dean’s throat, using his teeth to scrape along the skin he finds there. 

He goes still when he bottoms out, pressed all the way up and inside Dean. Dean wraps his arms around Cas, one around his neck, the other at his waist, and cradles him close. Cas is _inside him_.

“C’mon,” Dean gasps. “Move, you can move, please.” 

He’s not normally one to bed. With Cas, it comes easy. 

As Cas begins to shift his hips, Dean touches Cas’ jaw and angles his lips back within reach. They kiss, or they try. Mostly, they pant with open mouths, their foreheads pressed tightly together. In the first jittery thrusts, Dean remembers that Cas hasn’t done this much before. There’s only the one time that Dean knows about, and maybe something with Hannah that Dean could never put his finger on. 

No matter his experience, he finds his rhythm fast. 

In so many things, Cas can be awkward or uncertain. In moments like those, he looks to Dean for guidance and instruction. Not now, though. No, Cas fucks like he fights. Each drive of his hips is purposeful, calculated. He searches for that spot again and when he finds it, when Dean lets out another helpless noise, Cas is relentless. He digs his fingers into Dean’s thigh, anchoring his thrusts, and Dean knows that there will be bruises there tomorrow. The thought makes him feel so warm, that he’ll be able to feel them over the next few days and bring himself right back to this moment. 

Dean loses himself in the motion of it. Cas’ mouth on his skin, his fingers on Dean’s arse, his thighs, and the demanding press of his dick against Dean’s prostate. It’s too much for thought, leaves only room for blind sensation. It’s all that Dean can do to clutch at Cas’ back, urge him on with his hands and his hips, rising to meet Cas’ thrusts. 

Overwhelmed, by Cas, by the movement of their bodies, it’s no wonder that Dean comes again, the pleasure as searing hot as it was when Cas was sucking him. His dick spurts feebly, his come landing in a hot mess on his stomach. 

Cas stills, just for a moment, but Dean lets out a grunt. “Keep going, please,” he says because all he wants to feel is Cas spill himself. He wants Cas to mark him, claim him, like he has with the bruises, like the long-gone handprint on Dean’s shoulder. Cas does as he’s told, his face pressed hard into Dean’s shoulder, his thrusts turning a little messier. 

This is Cas chasing his own pleasure, and seeing it, feeling it, makes Dean feel full and good and so _happy_. It doesn’t take long for Cas to crest over the edge, letting out another groan that’s too loud for his bedroom, before his hips come to a jerky rest and he lets himself drop down on top of Dean. 

For a few minutes, they lie still, catching their breath. 

Cas stays where he is, his body draped across Dean’s. It’s the best thing Dean’s ever felt. Cas isn’t sweaty, but his body is warm and the slow rise and fall of his chest seems to have fallen into sync with Dean’s. He breathes, long, deep breaths that spill around across the skin of Dean’s neck. As Dean’s sweat cools, it makes him shiver, but it’s not cold enough yet for him to stir Cas to move. They can stay here a little longer. 

Of course, it doesn’t take long for Dean’s legs to ache, spread open as they are, still cradling Cas’ hips. And it does get on the wrong side of cold, here on the wrong side of the blankets, no matter how warm Cas’ skin is. 

Cas seems to sense Dean’s discomfort just as Dean does, and stirs to lift his weight up. Dean winces when Cas’ pulls out, only a little, but Cas notices. Immediately he moves his hand gently up and down Dean’s side, soothingly. He drops his weight onto the bed on Dean’s left and lets his head come down to rest on Dean’s arm. 

Dean would love to pull up and blanket and doze off with him, but his skin is tacky and they hadn’t used a condom. Which, shit, was probably a dumb move even if one of them was an angel. 

“Gotta clean this up,” Dean says, making no move to get up yet. He will, in a second. Maybe a minute. Maybe five. 

But Cas lifts his hand, two fingers outstretched and taps them to Dean’s sternum. A _real-freaky_ second passes and Dean finds himself suddenly clean. _Everywhere._

He sits up abruptly. “ _Dude_.” 

Dean doesn’t know if he’s complaining or not. Cas lifts his head a little, not understanding himself. “I’m sorry,” he says. “Did you want to get up?” 

Dean blinks at him. After a beat, he says, “No, but.” He’s not sure. “Did you really just vanish your spunk?” 

Cas makes a forlorn noise. He moves his finger down, dragging it across the lower part of Dean’s belly. “And yours, unfortunately.” 

Dean can’t help the barked laugh that escapes him. He’d been startled, yeah, but he’s not mad about it. He hadn’t felt like getting up. Besides, there had to be perks to falling for an angel, right? 

“Where’d you send it?” 

Cas waves a non-committal hand. “The cosmos,” he says flippantly. “Or the ether. Away from here.” 

And then, of course, the only thing that Dean can imagine is his and Cas’ spunk floating aimlessly in outer space. Then he’s laughing for a long time. 

Cas watches him as he laughs, clearly not understanding the joke. He doesn’t seem to mind. He shifts on the bed a little, getting comfortable, entirely content to listen to Dean’s laughter. 

Dean doesn’t let him settle properly. “Come on,” he says. “Get up, we can’t sleep on the blankets.” 

“I don’t sleep anywhere, Dean,” Cas reminds him. 

“Yeah, yeah, humour me.” Dean gets to his feet and tugs at the blankets under Can until the angel stands too. As soon as he’s up, Dean flips the blanket back and climbs right back into bed. “You don’t mind if I stay here tonight, do you?”

It’s only as the question leaves him that he realises Cas could say no. They haven’t really talked — not the way that Sam would say is healthy, anyway — and this might be it for Cas. He might say, ‘I’d prefer to be alone’ or ‘surely you will sleep better in your own bed.’ 

He panics for a moment. Cas doesn’t let it last longer than that. “I’d like you to stay as long as you like, Dean.”

Dean swallows. “Yeah?” 

“Yes.” Cas climbs into the bed with him and wastes no time lying down. When his head rests on his pillow, he looks up at Dean expectantly. “And I would be more than happy to stay with you.” 

Dean doesn’t lie down just yet. He looks down at Cas. “Are you sure? Kinda unfair of me to make you lie here all night.”

It would be unfair. And rude, to expect Cas to just lie down with him and wait there until the sun comes up. The more that Dean thinks about it, the more he realises this is a bad idea. What was he thinking asking Cas to —

His thoughts are abruptly cut off. Cas, apparently impatient, yanks Dean down flat on the bed and into his arms. 

“There is nowhere in creation that I would rather be, Dean,” he says, “than here with you.” 

Dean thinks about arguing. He does. But Cas’ chest is warm, and he’s already rubbing a soothing palm across the crown of Dean’s shoulder, soft and reassuring. So Dean lifts his arm and drapes it across Cas’ waist, then tangles his leg up with Cas’. 

“'M glad you’re back, Cas,” Dean says, his face tucked up near Cas’ neck. 

Cas wraps his other arm around Dean’s side, holding him close. “Me too.” 

Cas is here. He’s alive, and _here_ , and as Dean drifts off, he thinks, _maybe there was a right time after all._

**Author's Note:**

> As always, endings are hard. I might continue this, but I'm not exactly sure what that looks like right now, so I won't make any promises. 
> 
> If you have a mo, it would mean the world to me if you could leave a comment letting me know what you thought! 
> 
> I made a [tumblr](https://erostiel.tumblr.com/) for my spn thoughts and I have exactly zero friends, so if you wanna come by and say hey that would be 12/10. I also made a [fic post,](https://erostiel.tumblr.com/post/618697275393343488/til-then-by-erostiel-66k-explicit-and-now-all) so if you could reblog to boost I'll love you forever!! x


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